is, without having a hurry-up, slow-up effect screwin’ it up. So let’s get started.” Pete, walking backward on the perilous incline with the aid of the grip, taped Louise and die young botanist as they approached what looked like a rock garden full of small plants growing out of the tundra. These species favored the environment of a fell field, which was ground covered with small rocks. The high-altitude plants were growing in a climate where a tree could not survive. Never attaining normal size, they sprang up from old roots during a six-week growing season, and received only a few inches of moisture in the form of melted snow.
Derrell’s impassive face came alive as he described the qualities of each tough little speciman. He pointed out one of the park visitors’ favorites, old-man-on-the-mountain, only a foot high, with protective hairy leaves and showy yellow daisylike flowers. Then he and Louise crouched down to look at the other varieties growing nearby: a cluster of white bistort; the buttercup-flowered avens; the even more diminutive blue forget-me-not; and smallest of all—a mere pink blotch upon the earth—the pink-flowered dwarf clover.
Finally, Marty was satisfied. “Yeah—that’s got it!” the producer cried, looking more comfortable now that something seemed to be working. “Good job, Louise, with those dinky little plants. And, Derrell, by golly, you were a real pro. Didn’t know you had it in you. I really admire the two of you for not letting your teeth chatter. As for me, I’m freezing my tushy!”
Still hyper, Marty hustled them onward to the next task. “Let’s get outta here. We shoot in that wildflower meadow next, and I sure hope a chinook isn’t blowing there, too. I gotta confess—they make me edgy.” He rubbed his ample stomach. “But first, let’s grab lunch. I’m starved. Derrell, how many miles do we have to go to eat?” The park ranger had apparently become Marty’s new pal.
“There’s a good place near the entrance to the park,” Derrell told him, smiling faintly. “It’s only an hour away.” Groaning, Marty led the way back to the cars, while Pete dropped back to fall in step with Louise. The cameraman gave her a sideways glance. “How’re your cheeks?”
“
What?
”
“Wait,” he said, shying back in mock fear. “I know you think I’m being fresh, but don’t slap me. All I’mreferrin’ to is your dried-out face—
those
cheeks. Did you try the Bag Balm?”
“Not yet, Pete.” After hearing what Ann Evans said about this guy, she was puzzled. Exactly who was this Pete Fitzsimmons? He strode along, seemingly impervious to the strong wind, his beat-up felt hat jammed on his head without benefit of chin strap. She thought whimsically that this was the test. If those fabulous rugged eyebrows were only glued on, they’d fly away in this gale. They didn’t.
“Don’t wait too long to grease up,” he said with a grin. “Some people come out here to this dry climate and just plain dry up and blow away. I smear that stuff in whenever I’m goin’ huntin’ or fishin’.” Then he rustled around in the canvas bag on his shoulder. “But seriously, Louise, I got somethin’ spooky to show you. Look at these. I already hustled a set over to the sheriff’s office. I had to do some fast’taürin’ as to why I hadn’t turned this roll over to him. Told’im it got lost in one of my pockets.” They stopped on the path, and as tourists streamed by, he drew a packet of pictures from the bag and tried to hand them to her.
Still shaken about encountering a corpse, she was reluctant to look at them. “Pete, I’m not sure—”
He interrupted. “Don’t kid me, Louise. How long do I have to stand here in this chinook and convince you? I know darn well you’re interested.” He shoved the pictures at her, and this time she took them. Then he grinned, as if he had just played an enormous trick on her. “Even with these, I’ll bet you ten grand you
Derrell’s impassive face came alive as he described the qualities of each tough little speciman. He pointed out one of the park visitors’ favorites, old-man-on-the-mountain, only a foot high, with protective hairy leaves and showy yellow daisylike flowers. Then he and Louise crouched down to look at the other varieties growing nearby: a cluster of white bistort; the buttercup-flowered avens; the even more diminutive blue forget-me-not; and smallest of all—a mere pink blotch upon the earth—the pink-flowered dwarf clover.
Finally, Marty was satisfied. “Yeah—that’s got it!” the producer cried, looking more comfortable now that something seemed to be working. “Good job, Louise, with those dinky little plants. And, Derrell, by golly, you were a real pro. Didn’t know you had it in you. I really admire the two of you for not letting your teeth chatter. As for me, I’m freezing my tushy!”
Still hyper, Marty hustled them onward to the next task. “Let’s get outta here. We shoot in that wildflower meadow next, and I sure hope a chinook isn’t blowing there, too. I gotta confess—they make me edgy.” He rubbed his ample stomach. “But first, let’s grab lunch. I’m starved. Derrell, how many miles do we have to go to eat?” The park ranger had apparently become Marty’s new pal.
“There’s a good place near the entrance to the park,” Derrell told him, smiling faintly. “It’s only an hour away.” Groaning, Marty led the way back to the cars, while Pete dropped back to fall in step with Louise. The cameraman gave her a sideways glance. “How’re your cheeks?”
“
What?
”
“Wait,” he said, shying back in mock fear. “I know you think I’m being fresh, but don’t slap me. All I’mreferrin’ to is your dried-out face—
those
cheeks. Did you try the Bag Balm?”
“Not yet, Pete.” After hearing what Ann Evans said about this guy, she was puzzled. Exactly who was this Pete Fitzsimmons? He strode along, seemingly impervious to the strong wind, his beat-up felt hat jammed on his head without benefit of chin strap. She thought whimsically that this was the test. If those fabulous rugged eyebrows were only glued on, they’d fly away in this gale. They didn’t.
“Don’t wait too long to grease up,” he said with a grin. “Some people come out here to this dry climate and just plain dry up and blow away. I smear that stuff in whenever I’m goin’ huntin’ or fishin’.” Then he rustled around in the canvas bag on his shoulder. “But seriously, Louise, I got somethin’ spooky to show you. Look at these. I already hustled a set over to the sheriff’s office. I had to do some fast’taürin’ as to why I hadn’t turned this roll over to him. Told’im it got lost in one of my pockets.” They stopped on the path, and as tourists streamed by, he drew a packet of pictures from the bag and tried to hand them to her.
Still shaken about encountering a corpse, she was reluctant to look at them. “Pete, I’m not sure—”
He interrupted. “Don’t kid me, Louise. How long do I have to stand here in this chinook and convince you? I know darn well you’re interested.” He shoved the pictures at her, and this time she took them. Then he grinned, as if he had just played an enormous trick on her. “Even with these, I’ll bet you ten grand you
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